


we couldn't bring the columns down

by myhandisempty



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:55:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhandisempty/pseuds/myhandisempty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an unwelcome lightness on his shoulder, a weight he should be carrying, and he keeps looking and looking and not believing but the <em>nothing</em> is still there.</p>
<p>(Roman and Dean, post-SS)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we couldn't bring the columns down

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted some gentle h/c after last night so here's a little something I whipped up for myself.

Roman talks a lot about climbing mountains. He thought — god, he really, truly believed — that was because he knew how to do it all too well. Thought he knew what it was to dig your feet in, to climb ten feet higher only to slide five more back, thought he knew what it meant to carry a load on your shoulders that no one else can pick up for you, to put one hand above the other and remind yourself to breathe under the strain, and for a moment, for one single, blessed moment, thought he knew what it looked like to reach the peak.

 

He thinks, by now, he should have known better.

 

Roman thought he knew tough journeys, but the march to the back, aching limbs and dragging feet and bruised heart, bruised _pride_ , is the longest walk he's ever made.

 

There's confetti stuck to his arms, in his hair, lodged between his skin and his vest when he pulls the straps out of their buckles, and it's a mockery, another reminder, that snow drifting down from the summit to anoint the crown of his head and whisper gently, _so close, you were so close, what do you have to show for it_? There's an unwelcome lightness on his shoulder, a weight he should be carrying, and he keeps looking and looking and not believing but the _nothing_ is still there.

 

Behind the curtain, people are scarce, and Roman supposes he should be grateful for small blessings, but he's not feeling particularly thankful or indebted, right now. Dolph is visible in the distance, the double take he does making it seem like he may approach, so Roman quickly ducks down the first hallway, makes a beeline for his locker room and leans against the door, watching it swing open slowly.

 

Dean is sitting on the bench in the middle of the room, and he doesn't move fast enough for Roman to miss the way his hands were cradling his head, pulling at his own hair in a way that he of all people shouldn't. His eyes aren't puffy and red the way Roman's must be — he only needs two fingers to count the number of times he's seen Dean cry, and that's a relief, at least, the way it means nothing’s over, even if something new might be beginning — and the two of them stare at each other in silence for a small eternity.

 

That's always worked so well for them, before, and maybe Roman's greedy but he wants, he wants so badly to hear something, _anything_ , that will make this seem _less_ ; less cold numbness, less weight in his chest, less nothing on his shoulder. And Dean is so much — sometimes he's the dizzying height, that open air that feels like freedom and disaster hand in hand, sometimes the sure footing that Roman needed to push forward, sometimes the blast of cold wind he was never prepared for, couldn’t see coming; he's each of these things and, sometimes, even, all of them at once — but the Dean that he really needs now is the one that's been climbing at his side the whole time, the one that makes the thin air bearable, makes it easier to breathe.

 

“I shouldn't — shouldn't have left so early,” he says; Roman can feel the gravel in his voice rubbing against his skin. “I just — I just — wanted you to have your moment.” Dean's throat is working furiously, swallowing around whatever exact emotion is caught in it, causing him to sound this way. Roman has to do the same, bite back that it isn’t Dean’s fault, because of course it isn’t, and they both know it. Dean rises to his feet, pulls up to his full height, which is something that Roman rarely sees, something he seldom does. There’s a spark in his eye, hidden behind everything else that’s much closer to the surface, something angry and bitter and vengeful, and Roman thinks this is as good a start as any, that Dean is so ready and capable of raging enough for the both of them, when Roman’s struggling to find what he feels, if he’s feeling anything at all.

 

Sometimes Dean is the avalanche, building silently for months up above before the tiniest spark can cause it to come crashing down. He's a little bit of every natural disaster Roman has ever heard of, probably some he doesn't even know, too, and he would shake the earth apart at the seams for Roman. It’s fucking terrifying.

 

He loves every single bit of it.

 

“C’mon,” he tells Roman, takes one of the grimy towels the arena made available for them and wraps it around Roman’s neck, using it to pull him in before one arm rests on one shoulder, the other wrapping around both and holding tight. He leads Roman out a side door, one he didn’t even know existed, but a turn later there’s the car, and Roman doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t say a word when Dean actually buckles him in. A few minutes later, he’s back with both their bags, and Roman just watches him load the car with sharp, fierce movements, wonders just who will be caught under the snowslide, this time.

 

The locker room may have been quiet, but the car ride to their hotel is anything but. Dean’s voice is still grit, but it’s wearing down, now, falling out of his mouth like sand. “Think what you need is a massage, nice hot soak. Did a number on that shoulder, need to relax the muscle a bit.” Roman almost says something, to that — he’s the one who nearly speared Dean out of his boots, tonight, surely that’s a little more dramatic — but Dean fixes him with a look and doesn’t so much as stutter. “And no back talk. You take care of yourself for shit. Honestly, Rome. Need someone to make sure you ain’t slowly killin’ yourself with that overdeveloped sense of responsibility, that misplaced hero complex.” And it’s a two-way street, this problem, but Dean is only ever concerned about himself when he can’t see any reason to be concerned with Roman, and, well. Dean’s really very good at finding excuses to look at Roman.

 

“Good thing there’s you, then,” Roman says as soon as he thinks Dean’s done talking. His throat feels like he hasn’t spoken in days, like his voice is rusty and long out of use. Dean peeks over with wide eyes through overlong hair and gives a hum, a sharp nod of satisfaction.

 

“Good thing there’s me,” he agrees, something a stone’s throw from a smile on his face, but it’s still a little too jagged, a little too like icicles waiting to fall. If anyone understands what Roman lost tonight, it’s Dean, every bit as close to the championship as Roman was, both of them chasing it for the exact same reasons. Dean is like him, he _gets_ it; he knows that reaching such great heights isn’t about accolades, about being the first to make it, isn’t about being able to look down and see the rest of the world spread out far beneath you. It’s about proving to yourself that you could do it, that there is a part of you worth more than every last terrible thought you’ve ever had about yourself, a part of you that won’t let you down even when you expect it to. And that’s what Roman feels like he’s done, is let himself down, let his family down, let _Dean_ down. Dean didn’t, would never, lay down to take the loss, but he sacrificed anyway, in the end, for Roman, embraced him and planted a kiss to his head seconds after, and Roman rewarded his faith by turning around and giving everything they’d both worked for away.

 

“Was that the shortest title reign ever?” he asks, because Dean hasn’t said a word about it at all, and. Part of Roman needs to know, and maybe he’s reached the point, now, where the response doesn’t even matter, where at least there will be some humor in it. Probably not, but maybe. And if anyone knows the answer off the top of their head, it’s Dean.

 

There’s a short silence before Dean speaks, one that Roman automatically fills with the sound of the wheels he knows are turning in his head. “Nah,” Dean says eventually, eyes careful on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Roman so often likes to think of himself as the calm in the middle of their storm, but he’s not sure he’s _ever_ been as steadfast, as immovable as Dean is in this moment. “Pretty sure André sold the title immediately, back in ‘88. Got him beat by a couple minutes, at least.” Roman doesn’t remember that, isn’t sure the story is even true, but he’s willing to put that aside and trust that whatever the answer is, Dean is telling him what he needs to hear. “‘Sides. You’re far from the only person to hold the title less than a day.”

 

Roman wonders if Dean includes himself in that, if he thinks back to those three minutes when he held the belt overhead and believed in his heart, in his mind, that it was his, because Roman does. Dean is as much a champion as Roman is; moreso, even, regardless of whether the record books see it that way. At the very least, he never had to lose the title.

 

“And, y’know, just remember. Whatever else they take, they take the confetti, they take the belt, they take every last damn thing you’ve worked for, you’re a one-time WWE Heavyweight Champion, now,” Dean says, eyes half on the road and half on Roman, just like they’re always half on Roman, when they’re not fully on him. “And, that. That they can’t change, that’s something nobody can take away.”

 

“Only fourteen more to catch Cena,” Roman murmurs, the stirrings of a smile coming to his face, and Dean snorts from the seat beside him.

 

“Dream big,” he says, shaking his head. There’s another pause, one that’s already filled with Dean’s solid, buzzing presence. “You got Cena beat, a hundred times over. They,” he points out the window, and Roman’s not sure exactly what concept he’s trying to convey, The Authority, The WWE Universe, the entire world over, he just understands that, this time, Dean does not include himself in that single word. “They just don’t know it, yet.”

 

—

 

Dean wasn’t joking about the bath; before Roman’s even undressed, there’s a heavy curtain of steam dispersing from the other room where he disappeared a minute ago. He pokes his head out of the door not too long after, hair damp and starting to stick to the sides of his face again. When Roman starts to protest, he ushers him into the bathroom soundlessly, pressing another kiss to his head, and closes the door behind him on the way out, leaving Roman to sink into the tub full of hot water.

 

He will say this; it feels better than he thought it would, though the space is too small for a man his size — to get his shoulder below the surface requires resting his feet on the rim opposite his head, knees sticking far out of the comfortable warmth. He’s not foolish enough to believe soaking in an undersized tub will wash away all the hurts of the day, and he knows Dean isn’t, either, but it does help to make them seem further away when he dunks his head underwater. His eyes are closed as he holds his breath. It doesn’t feel like long, but enough time passes that when he opens them again, Dean is back, leaning against the sink counter with his arms crossed, just watching.

 

He’s not smiling, but none of the usual nervous tics or stimulating movements are present, either, and when Roman surfaces, the air rushing back into his ears sounds like a sigh, like a thank you. “Wouldn’ta left you here alone if I thought you’d resort to drowning yourself,” Dean mutters. It’s a poor joke, but he lets Dean have it if it makes him feel better, because Roman certainly feels at least a little more like a person, now, and it’s mostly because of him.

 

A towel is held up between his outstretched arms, then, still white and maybe a little grimy but substantially better than what the arena had to offer, and Roman rises from the tub in silence, steps into Dean’s embrace for the third time, tonight. It ain’t about love and hugs, he’d told Dean earlier; maybe the hugs aren’t an essential part of _them_ , but it’s simply impossible to divorce love from every interaction they have. It’s always there, hiding around the edges, quiet in the face of louder things, but it’s deafening, now, in the way Dean slowly dries his chest and sides, wraps the towel around his waist and ties a haphazard knot, in the way Roman’s heart is thundering against his ribs.

 

Sometimes, Dean is the sun cresting over all the other peaks, reminding him that it’s another day, another chance to keep moving forward.

 

He leads Roman to the bed, this time, collapses on it before waving Roman down to him, grabby hands like a toddler that bring something that tastes so close to a chuckle to his lips. Roman sits next to him, and Dean’s fingers immediately find his shoulder, clenching and releasing in just the right pattern. It’s a well-practiced ritual between them, by now, and Roman slumps against him, lets Dean support his weight when he’s willing.

 

“You remember what I told you? Back before this all started?” he asks, no longer massaging Roman’s shoulder so much as just rubbing circles into his back, and Roman blinks up at him, trying to connect the dots back to whatever point Dean is talking about. “I told you, I told you, you and me, it was always gonna be you and me.”

 

Roman swallows, his tongue feeling too thick for his mouth. He remembers, of course, of course he remembers Dean telling him they’d face each other in the tournament, no bravado in his voice, just calm confidence. And of course he remembers quietly agreeing. Sometimes, though, sometimes Dean says simple enough things, but it feels like he’s talking about something else.

 

“Tonight, tonight it was you.” Dean twists a loose strand of Roman’s hair around a finger, lets go and instead takes Roman’s hand in his, pressing a quick kiss to his knuckles. Sometimes Dean is the mountain itself, the path that changes day to day, and Roman doesn’t know if he’ll ever reach the top of this one, either, but, unlike all the other ones, it at least never seems further away. “It was you. But, just, remember. It’s _always_ you and me.”

  
It may be the closest Dean has ever gotten to saying those words, might be the closest they’ll ever be, but they don’t mean any less. “Yeah,” Roman agrees, squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as he can. He’s tired, so damn tired of crying and climbing and carrying nothing where there should be something, but he knows, at least, that he’s not going it alone. “I won’t forget it.”


End file.
